


The Merest Suggestion Could Cause a Sensation

by samyazaz



Category: A Gentleman's Guide to Love and Murder - Lutvak/Freedman
Genre: Accidental Marriage, F/F, F/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 18:00:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5465750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samyazaz/pseuds/samyazaz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sibella lowers her hands and looks down at them. Her stomach threatens revolt once more, because there on her finger is a ring. It's cheap and gaudy, probably plated and the stone is almost certainly glass, and whoever gave it to her ought to be ashamed of themselves. But it's there nevertheless, and there's no doubting what it is, gaudiness aside. </p>
<p>It's a wedding ring.</p>
<p>It's a wedding ring, and she's sitting here half-dressed in an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar hotel room, and she almost doesn't dare to look back over her shoulder at the other side of the bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Merest Suggestion Could Cause a Sensation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [evildevilgirl02](https://archiveofourown.org/users/evildevilgirl02/gifts).



There is a truly wretched taste in Sibella's mouth when she wakes, rivaled only by the pounding in her head and, when she sits up, the sudden, violent roiling in her stomach. 

She pushes the nausea down through sheer force of will, because she doesn't recognize the room that she's in and she's not entirely sure where the bathroom might be located and she absolutely refuses to be the sort of person who throws up on a hotel room floor. She is made of sterner stuff than that. 

The nausea passes once she's upright and sitting very, very still, and she's able to take stock of her surroundings. The hotel room's entirely unfamiliar, and when she thinks back to the night before to try to discover how she might have come to be here, her memory supplies little more than a blur. 

She remembers the bachelor party, of course, celebrating the impending nuptials of Monty Navarro and Phoebe D'Ysquith. As part of the wedding party, she'd been expected to attend, and no one had given a thought to how trying it might be for her to celebrate the wedding of the man she loves but can't have. 

And so, she'd had a few drinks. She remembers that, of course, just a few to take the edge off and to dull the sting of it all, so she could smile and almost believe she meant it whenever Phoebe beamed around at the lot of them and enthused about how terribly excited she was to be marrying such a fine man. 

She doesn't remember drinking enough to explain why she can't piece together the rest of the night, or why she feels so terribly ill this morning. She tempts fate and nausea to lift her hands and run them across her face, to rub her knuckles in her eyes -- and something sharp and cold presses into her cheek and makes her freeze. 

She lowers her hands and looks down at them. Her stomach threatens revolt once more, because there on her finger is a ring. It's cheap and gaudy, probably plated and the stone is almost certainly glass, and whoever gave it to her ought to be ashamed of themselves. But it's there nevertheless, and there's no doubting what it is, gaudiness aside. 

It's a wedding ring. 

It's a wedding ring, and she's sitting here half-dressed in an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar hotel room, and she almost doesn't dare to look back over her shoulder at the other side of the bed. But Sibella Hallward is no coward. She braces herself, and looks. 

There is someone asleep on the other side of the bed, the blankets pulled up over their head so all that's visible is a glimpse of hair in a very familiar shade of brown. 

"Oh no," she breathes, and backs away from the bed as though that can undo whatever happened the night before. As though it will make the ring around her finger disappear. "Oh _no_." 

She spins and flees to the bathroom, which she finds behind the second door she tries. She shuts the door, locks it, and then stares at herself in the mirror, her hair an unruly tangle from the bed, her eyes smudged with yesterday's mascara, her expression shellshocked. 

She loves Monty. As hard as it's been for her to summon genuine happiness over his engagement, she was the one who declared they could never be. She knew it meant that he'd find love and happiness in someone else, and she hates it, but she never wanted this. She wants him to be happy. And then, on the eve of his marriage, she got drunk and ruined everything for both of them. 

There's movement from outside the bathroom. Sibella flinches and reaches for the taps, running water into the sink for cover and to give herself just another moment to collect herself. When there's a quiet knock at the door, she meets her own gaze in the mirror, pulls her shoulders back, and turns sharply. 

"Monty," she says, pulling the door open, "Monty, we've ruined everything, I don't know how you can even bear to face me." 

"Well," says Phoebe from the other side of the doorway, looking sleepy and rumpled and not at all like she's just arrived to scream at Sibella for ruining her wedding day. "I doubt we've ruined _everything_ , precisely, that would be quite a feat." 

Sibella gapes at her like a fish for a solid minute before she manages to pick her jaw up off the floor. Behind Phoebe is the bed, the spot that was occupied a moment ago now vacant and the blankets thrown back. "You--" Sibella says, staring between the bed and Phoebe and the very cheap ring that newly adorns Phoebe's finger. "What-- _What--_ " 

Phoebe shoulders throw the doorway into the bathroom and briskly evicts Sibella out into the hallway on the other side. "Call down for coffee, would you?" she says, muffled from the other side of the door that she's shut in Sibella's face. "I have to pee." 

*

Twenty minutes later, Monty and Phoebe are sitting cross-legged on the bed with the tray of coffee set in the middle, and Sibella has her face buried in a pillow and half a dozen happily-oblivious texts from Lionel ignored on her phone. 

"He's going to hate me," she wails into the pillowcase. "Or worse, he's going to _leave_ me. What self-respecting man would stay with a girlfriend who's gone and gotten a quickie marriage to somebody else?" 

"If you'll pardon my saying so," Phoebe says, and she sounds like her usual prim and proper self, which is unfair when Sibella knows she's sitting there in her nightshirt with her sleep-rumpled hair looking far too loose and warm and sleepy for someone facing the sort of catastrophe that they're facing, "I never particularly got the impression that you _liked_ Mr. Holland?" 

Sibella waves a hand dismissively without lifting her face from the pillow. "Oh, he's a terrible boor more often than not. But he could do such wonderful things for my career. I'm going to be the laughingstock of the tabloids now, and he'll distance himself from me entirely to spare himself the scandal, and I'll never be anything more than I am now, some-- some _nobody_ \--" 

"You don't need him to have a career, you've got the talent for it all in your own right," Phoebe scoffs, and Sibella's saved from having to figure out what to say to that because almost at the same time, Monty says, "Sibella, darling, won't you sit up so we can talk about this?" 

Sibella sits up, but only so she can glare at him. His fiancée is sitting _right there_ , he should not be using pet names so boldly in front of her. 

Come to think of it, it's Sibella's wife who's sitting _right there_ as well. Whatever way they slice it, the endearments are wildly inappropriate. 

She bites back her impulse to say so, though, because Monty's looking somewhat wild-eyed sitting there cross-legged on her bed with matching rings on her and Phoebe's finger. She catches her breath and remembers what she'd said earlier, before the sight of Phoebe on the other side of the bathroom door had knocked all remaining sense out of her. 

"Oh," she breathes, bringing her fingers up to press against her mouth. "Oh, Monty. I've ruined it all for you, too, haven't I?" She glances at Phoebe, adds perhaps a moment later than she should have, "For both of you." 

"Now don't be ridiculous," Phoebe says briskly. "You're hardly the only one complicit in this. We both said vows last night, it seems. And I'm sorry if this makes things difficult with Lionel, I truly am, but you needn't fret on our behalf." 

Sibella stares at her. Phoebe usually seems like such a smart girl, but now Sibella has to wonder if maybe she's daft after all. "You two are meant to be _married_ today," she says. "And you've gone to so much trouble and expense. And all your guests, what on earth will they think--" 

"Oh," Phoebe says abruptly, like she's been startled, and Sibella thinks she's finally grasped the magnitude of their situation. Her eyes are wide and round and bright, and she doesn't look like she's half so hungover as Sibella is, which is entirely unfair. "Oh, I see. I think you misunderstand. We're not canceling the wedding." 

Sibella keeps staring at her. Maybe she was wrong about the hangover after all. She spells it out, saying slowly, "The thing is, you see, there are laws about being married to two people at the same time." 

Phoebe waves a hand as though silly things like laws are immaterial. "About _marriage_ , sure. But not about weddings." She leans forward, quicker than Sibella can react, and clasps both of Sibella's hands in hers. "We talked about this, Monty and I, when I was bringing him up here. A wedding's just a symbol. It doesn't mean anything until the license is signed and submitted, and we can go down to the courthouse and do that whenever we like. We don't need a wedding to get married, and we don't need to get married to have a wedding. So we'll do it just as we planned and affirm our love and commitment before our friends and family, and then we'll celebrate that love, and we just won't sign the papers today. No one but the three of us will need to know that there's anything unusual about it at all." 

It's a mad plan, and Phoebe's family is public enough that if anyone caught wind of it, it would be all over the tabloids and the internet faster than they could blink. And even if Phoebe is right about Sibella having all the talent she needs to progress her own career, if she was caught up in the scandal of it her reputation would never recover. No one would hire her, talent be damned, because of all the baggage and speculation she'd bring along with her. She'd be ruined. 

Of course, if they cancel or postpone the wedding, that will make the news as well, and it's just as likely that Sibella's involvement in it might come to light all the same. A quickie Vegas wedding to one of the daughters of the D'Ysquith family would still cause a scandal and damage her reputation, though perhaps to a lesser extent than bigamy. The only solution that bears even the slightest chance of her coming through this with her reputation clean and her career undamaged is Phoebe's. She's worked too hard to watch it all go circling down the drain now. 

"Right," she says with a decisive nod and pulls her hands from Phoebe's so she can start to try to tame the mess the night has made of her hair. "I'm going to need a shower, then, and a fresh pot of coffee." 

The corners of Phoebe's eyes crinkle with her smile. "I'll call down for more room service." 

*

Monty's gone by the time Sibella's finished with her shower, and at her questioning look, Phoebe smiles her impish smile and says, "Well, it is bad luck for the groom to see the bride beforehand, after all. We had some extenuating circumstances this morning, but I wanted there to still be _some_ surprise left when I walk down the aisle." There's a garment bag on the bed beside her that hadn't been there before. When she pats it, it rustles quietly. "Will you help me dress?" 

There's something quiet and uncertain in her eyes when she asks the question, as though she's not sure of the answer. As though Sibella could refuse her anything, when Sibella is at least half the reason she and Monty are in this mess to begin with. 

"Of course," she says with a bright smile, and then turns away to unzip the garment bag and draw the dress out when Phoebe starts stripping out of her nightshirt. 

It's a beautiful dress, all delicate lace and intricate beading. When Phoebe clears her throat, Sibella glances over her shoulder at her, finds her ready in just her bra and underwear, with an uneven smile that's at once questioning and hopeful. "Do you like it?" she asks softly. 

"It's as lovely as you are. Monty's jaw is going to positively hit the floor when he sees you." 

Phoebe's cheeks flush pink with pleasure. "It's got buttons in the back," she says. "I can't do them all up by myself." 

Sibella turns to gather the dress up. "Well. That's what I'm here for, after all. Come on, let's get you ready for him, shall we?" 

She's not kidding about the buttons. They're tiny and closely spaced and there's a long line of them running up Phoebe's spine. Sibella has to stand close behind Phoebe to do them up, and she bites back muttered oaths every time her fingers slip or the buttons fight back as she tries to slide them through their buttonholes. Phoebe has her hair pulled forward over her shoulder to let Sibella see what she's doing, and Sibella's dexterity is not helped at all by the pale line of Phoebe's neck, right there where she can't help but gaze at it. 

Phoebe doesn't comment on the time it takes her to finish with the buttons, and if she did Sibella would blame it on the hangover making her clumsy. But that's not even really a lie, now is it? The fog that the alcohol has left in her brain has stripped her of her ability to focus, left her vague and distractible. It isn't fair. She needs to be at her best now more than ever, when scandal is looming and Sibella keeps losing track of her thoughts as her gaze lingers on the way Phoebe's dress leaves most of her shoulders bare. 

*

Sibella helps Phoebe with her dress, and kneels to help her step into her shoes. When the flowers hasn't arrived by the scheduled time, she pulls out her phone and has the florist stammering a promise that they'll be there in five minutes. When Monty calls up -- to Sibella's phone, not Phoebe's, which only gives her pause for a moment -- to say that he's had word that the sound system in the reception hall is on the fritz and they all might end up dancing the night away in silence, Sibella pins the phone to her ear and has a local band with an open schedule booked inside of half an hour. When the makeup artist texts that her car broke down on the side of the road forty-five minutes out and there's no way she'll be able to make it in time for the ceremony, Sibella guides Phoebe over to the hotel room's chair, spreads her own makeup bag across the desk, and sets to work. 

"All weddings are like this at least a little bit, right?" Phoebe asks, her gaze turned up to the ceiling and holding dutifully still while Sibella applies mascara with a delicate touch. "I mean, not the--" She waves the hand that's still wearing last night's tacky ring, until Sibella clucks at her to stop moving. "But everything else. Things going wrong. Caterers coming down with the flu, a freak rain storm rolling in. It's normal, isn't it?" 

"It's all going to be fine," Sibella says, brisk, certain. "It's going to be perfect." 

"You've helped so much." Phoebe blinks rapidly. "You can't even know. I'd be tearing my hair out right now if it weren't for you." 

They all have a vested interest in seeing this wedding go off flawlessly, Sibella no less than either Phoebe or Monty. But she doesn't remind Phoebe of that, only sighs and says, "I've gone and made it uneven. Hold still, now, I'll wipe it off and get it right." 

"I'm sure it's fine," Phoebe says, bringing her gaze down to meet Sibella's. 

Sibella sets her mouth and takes Phoebe's chin between her fingers to turn her face to just the right angle. "It's going to be perfect," she says firmly, and sets out to make it so. 

*

People have told Sibella before that she has an iron will, and usually they mean it as a bad thing, because they want something she refuses to give them, or because she wants something and knows better than to take no for an answer. Today, it is serving her in good stead. She's pretty certain it's the only thing keeping her standing there at the front of the church with her smile perfectly in place while Monty and Phoebe stand together before the minister and look at each other like there's no one else in the church but the two of them. 

It is exactly as it ought to be. The guests look just as smitten by the ceremony as they ought to be. Sibella takes a moment to sweep her gaze over them and sees no hint of speculation, no one whispering behind their hands or eyeing the happy couple like they know something they oughtn't. Sibella ought to be happy. She shouldn't have to fake this smile. She should be glad. She _is_ glad. 

But there's a quiet churning in her stomach that she's fairly sure has nothing at all to do with last night's overindulgence. Phoebe smiles at Monty across the space between them and Sibella is struck by a fuzzy-edged memory of the night before, of Phoebe smiling at her like that, her eyes bright with the wine and with something more, laughter working its way up out of her as they stagger arm-in-arm down the brightly-lit late-night streets. 

The minister speaks the familiar words of the ceremony and Sibella's stomach jumps with the memory of standing like this with Phoebe, in a small, empty chapel with an officiant dressed in a bright shirt with a lei around his neck, a rainbow of plastic flowers clutched in Phoebe's hands, both of them trying to stifle their laughter and stay solemn as their tongues stumble over their vows. 

Phoebe and Monty exchange rings and Sibella remembers standing in front of a display with her, remembers Phoebe digging through her wallet and pulling out a ten dollar bill and a few quarters and looking mournfully up at Sibella, saying, "It's all I have. I tipped the rest to the bartender." 

Sibella remembers the saleswoman offering them a pair of cheap plastic-and-glass rings, remembers Phoebe's face going solemn as she looks down at them, remembers pulling Phoebe in against her side and defiantly telling the saleswoman, "They're perfect. We'll take them," so Phoebe will stop looking like she's somehow let Sibella down. 

Sibella runs her thumb against her ring finger, right at the spot where that five-dollar ring had sat through the night and into the morning. She hadn't worn it long enough to grow accustomed to it. She shouldn't be aware of its absence like this. 

"You may kiss the bride," the minister says, and Phoebe and Monty lean in to each other, and Sibella is struck breathless remembering the warmth of Phoebe's mouth against her, the taste of wine on her breath, the way her lips kept curving into a grin against Sibella's until they had to part to just clutch each other and giggle together. 

She can't imagine what she was thinking then. 

She can't comprehend what she's thinking now. 

Phoebe and Monty are pronounced husband and wife and only then does Sibella waver. She ducks her head and rubs a knuckle at her eye and lets everyone think that it's just the sentiment of the moment that's overtaken her, when the truth is that she knows it's a lie. The rest of it, at least, was true, if perhaps not entirely honest. They love each other, and they're here to celebrate their love and to make promises about their future. That much is true. But not this -- not the _man and wife_ part or the _Mr. And Mrs. Navarro_ part. That's a sham, and she ducks her head so that her expression can't betray her and give the whole ruse away. 

Monty and Phoebe proceed back up the aisle, and Sibella follows after them with the rest of the bridesmaids and groomsmen. She breathes with relief, and hands off her small bouquet to a flower girl who looks delighted and buries her face in the blooms. 

Sibella only has eyes for Phoebe and Monty, who standing side by side in the church's vestibule, their heads bowed together and their faces bright as the sun as they look at one another, as Phoebe rises up onto her toes and kisses Monty like her joy is too much to be contained. 

Sibella hesitates then, feeling as though she's interrupting a private moment. Before she can back away and slip off, though, Phoebe lowers herself down off of her toes and opens her eyes and sees her. Her smile brightens, widens, and she pushes her own bouquet into Monty's hands as she comes forward to take Sibella by the shoulders and kiss her cheeks. 

Sibella shuts her eyes at the kiss and leans into it, just a little. Just to be polite. No one wants to kiss someone who stands stiff as a flagpole, even if it's just a friendly peck on the cheek. 

"It was perfect," Phoebe says, radiant as she looks at her. "And you're most of the reason why. Thank you, for everything." 

_Not for_ everything, Sibella thinks, but she smiles and hugs Phoebe, leads her back to Monty's side. "The receiving line will be forming any minute," she says. "But let me be the first to tell you congratulations. You'll both be very happy with one another, I'm sure of it." 

Phoebe's smile dims a fraction, a question flickering into her eyes. But there's no opportunity for her to ask it because the church's doors are opening, the guests streaming out to offer their own congratulations. Sibella hugs Monty as well and releases him quickly, before the urge to linger can overtake her, and then she steps aside and lets the receiving line take her place. 

She stands behind them and to the side, unnoticed, and watches as everyone files along to give their congratulations. She watches the flash of Phoebe's smile as she thanks them each in turn, the way the corners of Monty's eyes crinkle with quiet happiness, and she tells herself that she did the right thing. 

It's the truth and she knows it, but when she tells herself that she's content with it, she finds that somewhat harder to believe. 

*

The reception is lovely, full of music and flowers and soft, golden light that makes everyone look radiant. As maid of honor, Sibella's seated at the same table as Phoebe and Monty. She smiles and laughs with them as they regale their guests with stories of their courtship, and she drinks perhaps somewhat more wine than she ought, considering that's how they got themselves in this mess in the first place. 

Her head is already spinning a little when Monty catches her by the hand and says, "Dance with me," and pulls her away from the table and onto the dance floor before she has an opportunity to protest. 

He holds her closer than any man should, on the day of his marriage to another woman. Sibella's face is flushed and hot, and she can't be sure if it's from the wine or from him. She's stiff in his arms, aware of all the guests around them who must be casting them sidelong glances and whispering behind their hands at the way the groom is dancing with the maid of honor, until Monty laughs quietly with his cheek pressed to hers and says, "It's just a dance, Sibella. It doesn't mean anything more than you want it to." 

It's the wanting that's the problem, and Monty knows that. He knows she wants him, he must. But he keeps his arm around her waist and sways with her to the music, and Sibella slowly relaxes into the familiar steps. They've done this before, the two of them, any number of times. She's always enjoyed dancing. 

And maybe now, on their wedding day, with the vows so recently spoke between them and their union so newly affirmed, maybe now of all times she will be able to dance with him without raising eyebrows. Anyone who looks at him can see how he adores Phoebe, after all. 

The music changes, picks up tempo to something with a bit of bounce to it, and she's grateful for it. This dance with him leaves her breathless and beaming, her face flushed with happiness now as her pulse settles in to the beat of the music. 

Monty twirls her under his arm, and when she comes out the other side Phoebe's there, the corners of her eyes crinkled up with a smile as she catches Sibella by the arms to steady her. "Careful," she says, mirth warming her voice, and then, "May I cut in?" 

It takes Sibella a moment to catch her breath enough to speak, and to push down the sharp stab of disappointment well enough that she can be sincere when she says, "Of course. I didn't mean to monopolize him." 

Phoebe steps past her toward Monty. She puts a hand on his arm to steady herself as she rises up to press a kiss to his cheek. It leaves a smudge of lipstick there, and he grins like he knows and doesn't care. "Go get us something to drink, would you, darling?" 

Monty says something to her that's too quiet to hear over the music, then gives her hand a squeeze before he turns and goes. When Phoebe turns back to Sibella, Sibella is blinking. "But I thought--" 

"Come on, dance with me." Phoebe grabs her by the hand and pulls her deeper into the dance floor. When she turns to her, the press of the crowd pushes them in close together. "Oh, I love this song," she says and tosses her hair back out of her face with a laugh, and she's as brilliant as a star. Sibella lifts the hand that's still clasped in Phoebe's and spins her under it. Her dress twirls out, the beadwork sparkling beneath the lights, and she's luminous. 

She circles twice beneath Sibella's arm, then comes crashing in against her like she's dizzy, laughing and her arms thrown around Sibella's neck. Sibella holds onto her and smiles back at her, helpless to do anything else. Phoebe's joy is infectious. 

"I'm going to step on your dress," she cautions when Phoebe doesn't put the distance back between them. "It'll tear." 

The brightness on Phoebe's face doesn't dim one degree. "That's all right, it's served its purpose. There are more important things right now. The world's not going to run out of dresses." 

Sibella considers this for a moment. "Do you think it's likely to run out of music to dance to?" 

"You never know." Phoebe's eyes are bright and lively as she leans in. "We'd better not risk it." And then she's spinning off again with Sibella, and Sibella gives in and lets herself enjoy be buoyed away on the effervescent tide of Phoebe's happiness. 

*

As the hour grows later, the music grows slower. Sibella keeps herself occupied at the bar or allowing other guests to ask for a dance, so that Phoebe and Monty can stay in each other's arms, clasping one another close and swaying to the music, without bothering themselves with her and whether she's occupied. 

Eventually, Phoebe finds her smiling her way through a conversation with a bore of a man, and pulls her into a quiet corner of the reception hall. Her hair is starting to come loose from its careful styling and her lipstick is smudged, no doubt from Monty's enthusiasm, and it ought to make her look less lovely but it doesn't. "We need to be leaving soon, if we're going to catch our flight," she says. "But I wanted to thank you again, for everything. Today was perfect, and I know that's in large part to you." 

Phoebe has hold of her hands, otherwise Sibella would make a flippant gesture, brushing off the flattery. "I nearly ruined it all to start with. It was the least I could do." 

Phoebe just looks at her for a moment. "You really didn't," she says at length, then leans in and lifts up onto her toes. She presses a lingering kiss to Sibella's cheek. The flowery scent of her perfume fills Sibella's lungs. 

"Have a good flight," Sibella says when Phoebe pulls away. "I hope you have a wonderful time." 

"Thank you," Phoebe says again, too sincere. And Sibella doesn't have anything else to say to that, can't bring herself to say _you're welcome_ considering everything she'd done to imperil this wedding, so after a moment Phoebe excuses herself and goes across the reception hall to Monty's side, and they announce their departure and accept the well wishes and farewells of their guests. 

Sibella seeks Monty out to give him a hug and say her good-byes, then keeps back of the rest of the guests, to allow them their turn. She has a room in the hotel they started the morning in, paid through the night by Monty and Phoebe as thanks for her services as maid of honor, so she could end the day with a well-deserved rest rather than having to depart for home straightaway. She'd protested the necessity of it months ago, when they'd first told her of their intentions, but now she's only grateful for it. Between the late night and the long day, she scarcely has the energy to make it to the hotel, much less all the way back home. 

She toes her heels off in the cab and rubs at her feet. Any other day, she'd never be caught dead so discomposed, but when the taxi stops in front of the hotel, she looks down at the shoes in her hands and contemplates putting them back on for the walk through the lobby to the elevators, and she thinks, _The hell with it,_ and walks in in her bare feet. Her stockings will be ruined, but she doesn't care about that, either. 

It's late enough that the hotel's lobby is deserted, only a woman at the front desk to witness Sibella enter with her shoes in her hands, and she only smiles at Sibella, and then gives her a sympathetic wince. 

Sibella leans back against the wall of the elevator while it carries her up to her floor, then makes her way down the hall on aching feet until she finds the room that corresponds to the number on her keycard. She lets herself in and doesn't even bother turning on the lights, just drops her shoes to the floor and slithers out of her dress, leaves that in a crumpled pile too and leaves a trail of undergarments behind her as she makes her way to the bed and falls face-first into the pillow. She has only a moment to contemplate what Phoebe and Monty must be doing now, whether they've made it to the airport yet, if they're slumped against one another in those hard airport seats, trying to keep one another awake as they wait for their flight to board. 

It makes her smile just a little to think of it, and she probably smears lipstick on the pillow but she can't bring herself to care about that, either, tonight. And with the thought of Phoebe and Monty, sleepy and exhausted and probably adorable, listing against one another as though it's only their combined strength that can keep either of them upright, Sibella drops straight into the oblivion of sleep. 

*

In the morning, she wakes to find a brief text from Monty that came in during the night. _Landed safely. Thank you again for everything. Going to go sleep for a year now._

She doesn't respond, for fear of waking him early on the first morning of his honeymoon, when he's meant to be sleeping in or enjoying the company of his wife. She packs her things and goes downstairs to enjoy the hotel's complementary breakfast, then loads her bags into her car and checks out. 

She has no hangover this morning, no pounding head or threatening nausea, but she almost feels worse than she did the morning before. There's something sitting hard and sharp in the bottom of her stomach. Overexertion from the day before, perhaps, or lingering exhaustion from her restless night. 

She's halfway home when her phone chimes from where she's left it on the car's center console. She glances at it, just enough to see _Navarro_ scrolling off the edge of her screen, but she doesn't answer it. She's not foolish enough to take her life into her hands by texting behind the wheel. 

Besides, Monty's on his honeymoon. He should be lavishing his attention on Phoebe, not texting Sibella. If this is how he means to conduct his marriage, then she'll have to nip it in the bud, for Phoebe's sake. She deserves better than that. 

She waits until she's home, brought all her bags in, and unpacked before she lets herself reach for the phone to see what was so important that he had to text her from the middle of his honeymoon. When she unlocks her phone, though, she sees that it's a snapchat alert, not a text. She opens it, frowning. 

It's a picture of a lovely tropical beach, with glimmering white sand and two pairs of bare legs that must be Monty's and Phoebe's stretching out away from the camera. Monty's legs are hairy and he's wearing swim trunks in some godawful bright floral pattern. Phoebe's are pale and slender and she has bright blue polish on her toes. They both have brightly-colored cocktails with umbrellas in them on little tables beside their chairs, and Sibella's so preoccupied by the site of it all that when the timer runs out and the picture disappears she's barely caught a glimpse of the caption Monty added underneath it. But even that makes her breath catch, makes her frown and hastily hit the button to open it again, because it can't have said what she thinks it did-- 

_Wish you were here,_ it says. 

Sibella stares at it for a long moment, until the timer finishes counting down and the photo disappears again. The flash of the screen as the photograph gives way to the cold white of the chat window galvanizes her. _MONTY, DON'T BE A TEASE,_ she shoots back, then stomps upstairs to shower the memory of the past two days from her. 

She keeps the water just this side of scalding and stands beneath the spray until her skin turns pink and tender. She shut the water off until it's gone tepid and chills steal across her skin. Then, she steps out of the shower and wraps up in a bathrobe, twists her hair up in a towel, and heads back downstairs. 

She freezes halfway into the kitchen at the sight of her phone where she'd left it, lying abandoned on the counter. She swallows down the lump in her throat and pulls her spine straight, holds her chin high as she reaches for it and swipes over to the notification screen. There's no one there to put the display on for, but she appreciates the show of strength all the same, especially when she sees that she received a message from Phoebe while she was in the shower. 

_All right,_ she thinks. She'd rather have not had this out while they were still on their honeymoon, but if Monty isn't going to respect the boundaries that are now between them, she at least owes it to Phoebe to reassure her that _she_ will. 

She opens the chat with Phoebe and is momentarily bewildered to see conversation already filling up the first few lines of the screen, snapchat's alert of an incoming photo and then Sibella's own name and the admonishment _DON'T BE A TEASE_. But she sent that to _Monty_ , why would it-- 

There's a new photo waiting to be opened. Sibella hovers her finger over it, then resolutely presses down. 

The photograph that comes up is a selfie of Phoebe, mostly just her face. She looks like she's on the beach still, smiling and wearing big sunglasses and a floppy, broad-brimmed hat. 

_Not Monty_ , the caption says. _And not teasing._

The picture vanishes too soon, while Sibella's mind is still scrambling to catch up. She can't think of what to say. She can't even think of what to _think_. 

She's still staring dumbly at her phone when a new picture comes in. Sibella tells herself that she should ignore it, that Phoebe's been drinking, which is her prerogative while on her honeymoon but experience has clearly shown that when alcohol and Sibella are in the mix, Phoebe starts making truly terrible choices. 

She opens the picture. It's another selfie, taken at a bit more of a distance than the first because Monty's joined Phoebe in the frame, his face pressed in beside hers like he's worried part of him might get cut off. Phoebe's laughing, the corners of her eyes crinkled up. 

The caption says, _Monty echoes the sentiment, though. Miss you!_ Sibella's gazes fixes on a chain around Phoebe's neck, just as the picture disappears. She swears beneath her breath and opens it again, then scrambles to take a screenshot before the timer runs down a second time, because this is something that's going to take more than a few brief seconds for her to process. 

Phoebe sends her a smiley face in the chat, almost certainly in response to the notification that Sibella had taken the screenshot, but Sibella is too preoccupied to reply. She pulls open her photos, opens the screenshot and then gropes blindly for her couch so she can drop down onto it. 

Phoebe's left hand is visible in the photo, lying against Monty's chest with her arm hooked around his neck, and Monty's ring is sparkling on her finger. But there's a thin silver chain around her neck and another ring hanging from it like a pendant. Sibella zooms in on the necklace with shaking hands, but she doesn't need to. She knows that ring. She has its twin tucked away in her jewelry box, though even as she'd put it away she'd questioned why she was bothering to keep a cheap piece of costume jewelry as though it held any monetary value at all. 

Phoebe's still wearing their wedding ring. 

Sibella's phone rings, vibrating in her palm. She jumps so hard that she nearly throws it across the room. When she sees Phoebe's name and number scrolling across her screen, a sudden wave of nausea rolls through her and sends her stomach churning. 

She is not a cowardly woman. Even so, she has to take three steadying breaths before she's able to answer the phone. 

"Sibella?" Phoebe's voice is bright through the phone line, as clear as if she were standing right there at Sibella's side. "Hello? Are you there?" 

"I'm here," Sibella makes herself say, and she thinks she sounds very composed given the circumstances. 

Phoebe hesitates. "Oh." Her voice wavers, some of the brightness dropping out of it. "What's wrong? You sound upset. What is it?" 

Sibella shuts her eyes and inches the bridge of her nose. She puts more levity into her voice as she says, "Nothing's wrong, except that you're calling me while on your honeymoon instead of being hopelessly diverted by your new husband as you ought to be. Monty's falling down on the job." 

"I have been as thoroughly diverted as a woman can be, I promise you. Sibella, are you _sure_ nothing's wrong?" 

"Of course I am," Sibella means to say, with a light little laugh to sell it, but what comes out instead is, "You're still wearing the ring?", choked and fraught and not giving the right impression at _all_. 

There's a moment of silence, nothing but the sound of Phoebe's breathing coming across the line, and then, "Oh," Phoebe says, and it sounds all wrong, soft and unhappy. "This is happening all wrong, we were going to talk about this with you when we got back, when we could do it properly." 

"You're on your honeymoon," Sibella says, hand gripped tight around the phone. "And you're wearing my ring." 

"Yes," Phoebe says, simple as that. 

Sibella flops backwards across the couch and throws an arm over her eyes. _"Why?"_

Phoebe's quiet again. Sibella wants to reach through the phone and shake her. Or maybe grab her and drag her through it, so Sibella can see her face and know what her expression looks like and not have to wonder what these long silences mean. "We really should do this in person," Phoebe says again, sounding conflicted. 

"You cannot possibly expect me to wait _weeks_ for you to get home to explain yourself," Sibella snapped, abruptly irritable because Phoebe has thrown her into a whirl these past two days and is now talking like she just intends to leave her in the midst of this chaos without even a scrap of understanding to cling to. "Is this about our annulment? Because we already discussed that, I don't need to be coddled, if there's something you need from me to make it happen, or make it happen faster, just say so--" 

"No," Phoebe says quickly, and Sibella stops, confused once more. Phoebe hesitates, then continues in a more careful tone, "No, it's rather the opposite of that, actually." 

Sibella waits, her heart beating too hard against her chest, but Phoebe doesn't explain. "I don't understand." The opposite of getting an annulment is staying married, but that makes no sense at all. They have to annul their marriage, it was rash, nothing but drunken foolishness, and if they don't then Phoebe and Monty can't be married and-- "Phoebe," she says abruptly. "Monty hasn't driven you mad already, has he? He can be a thoughtless brute sometimes, I know it as well as anyone, but he means well, he truly does. You only need to tell him what he's done and he'll try to improve--" 

"Sibella," Phoebe says, sharp enough to silence her. "It's not _that_. Oh, I knew I would mess this all up, I just knew it. I'm doing it all wrong. Okay." She takes a deep breath and sounds like she's gathering herself up for something momentous. Probably something momentous and awful. Sibella's never known Phoebe to be as rattled as she sounds now. "So, the thing is, Monty loves you." 

Oh no. It's about as awful as it can get. Sibella squeezes her eyes shut. "He married you. He loves _you_. You can't think that I would ever get between you--" 

"Please stop." Phoebe sounds abruptly, incomprehensibly, amused. "Monty loves you. And I know you love him. And I-- I have grown quite fond of you, myself." 

Sibella's chest aches, her lungs burning for air because she can't quite remember how to breathe. She wants to say, _Of course, I'm your maid of honor, after all,_ wants to talk about how working together to plan the wedding has brought them closer and solidified their friendship, but she can't. Friends don't get drunk and get married at their bachelorette party. 

Friends don't decide not to annul their drunken marriage so they can marry the man they actually intended to spend the rest of their life with. 

"Phoebe, I don't know what you mean," she says, and what she means is, _Please, say it plain, please just tell me, don't make me guess at this because I might be wrong and I couldn't bear it._

"You should come here," Phoebe says on a rush, all at once, like the decision's just come to her. "It's lovely. You'd love it. And we meant what we said, before." 

_Wish you were here,_ she'd said. 

Sibella presses a hand over her eyes. "It's your honeymoon," she protests feebly. 

"We want you here." 

"I can't-- I couldn't possibly-- I have work, I have obligations, I just got home an hour ago--" 

"Call in sick," Phoebe says, and there's nothing hesitant or unsure in her voice now. It's firm and resolute and Sibella's too unsteady to hold strong in the face of it. "Take vacation. Come be here with us." 

Sibella has to swallow three times to get her voice to work again. "Put Monty on the phone," she says. "Please." 

Phoebe's quiet, then her voice comes, but distant and muffled. A moment later, Monty's voice comes over the line. "Sibella?" 

"Is she always this much of a bulldozer when she has her mind set on something?" 

"Worse, usually." Monty sounds like he's grinning, like he's amused by these whole proceedings. Or maybe just like he's happy about it. "You should've been there when she proposed to me. She's going easy on you." 

"I can't," she says feebly. "I can't," and she means so many things. _I can't leave. I can't do this to you. I can't want this. I can't_ have _this._

"Phoebe's buying the ticket now," Monty says, bright and cheerful like they're exchanging pleasantries. "Can you be at the airport in an hour?" 

Sibella laughs, hollow and helpless. "I just unpacked." 

Monty hums thoughtfully. "Better make it two," he says, his voice distant like he's pulled the phone away from his mouth. He's speaking to Phoebe. 

Phoebe, who's buying Sibella a plane ticket to the tropics to crash her honeymoon. 

"Two hours," he says into the phone again. "The ticket's all booked, you just need your passport. You'll be here by tonight." 

"Monty," Sibella says, desperate. 

"We'll pick you up at the airport." 

" _Monty._ " 

He stops speaking, but she doesn't know what to say to fill the silence. 

"You don't have to," he says quietly. "It's your choice. We'd understand if you didn't come." 

"You've bought the ticket." 

"It doesn't matter." 

They've known each other too long, she and him. Long enough that they can speak this way, surface sentences that carry a wealth of meaning beneath them. Long enough that she knows what it means when he weights the words just a little different than how he normally would. He means _it's okay_ and _it's up to you_ and _yes, we might be heartbroken if you don't step off that plane, but it doesn't matter, this isn't about what_ we _want anymore._

"I need to think," she says, a confession breathed softly into the phone. "I don't know. I need to think." 

"Okay," Monty says, eminently reasonable. "We can reschedule the ticket to a later flight, if it comes to it. Or-- Or cancel it, if it comes to that." 

He's hoping for reassurance, but she can't give him that. The best she can manage is, "I'll try to think fast." 

"Think as much as you like, Sibella." His voice is rich again, warm enough that she wants to wrap herself up in it. "I'll let you go now, but we'll talk to you later." 

She barely manages to choke out a, "Good-bye," and then the line's dead and she's sitting alone in her house once more. Her heart's pounding, but everything else in her is paralyzed at the magnitude of the choice that lies before her. 

*

Sibella makes her way through the concourse, carry-on rolling behind her, and resolutely does not scan the faces of every single person she passes, searching for Monty and Phoebe. She's not holding her breath, she's not worrying they might have changed their minds and not shown up after all. She is absolutely, unequivocally not making plans for how to keep herself together if this turns out to be one huge misunderstanding. 

She is going to walk out of here and collect her luggage and if there's no one to greet her at the baggage claim, then she is going to enjoy an unexpected but overdue vacation, and she is going to have a grand time doing so. 

She follows the signs directing passengers to the baggage claim area, and when she comes around a corner at the end of a long corridor and when Monty and Phoebe are there, clutching at one another's arms and looking hopeful and, once they see her, joyous, Sibella has to summon all her strength of will and lock her legs beneath her to keep her knees from wobbling with giddy relief. 

It's a small comfort to see the same expression on both Monty and Phoebe's faces. She comes out past the security barriers and Phoebe squeals and peels herself away from Monty to throw herself at Sibella. 

Sibella catches her. She's had the entire flight here to think of what she's going to say when she sees them -- _if_ she sees them -- and she came up with nothing. But she's going to say something now and it's going to be perfect, just a little aloof and collected so no one thinks that she's been a nervous wreck, tearing the airline's paper napkins into confetti ever since they took off, she knows the perfect thing to say to keep her pride intact, it's right there on the tip of her tongue, she just needs to think of it-- 

Phoebe kisses her, right on the mouth, arms around her neck and hands in her hair, her lips parted and coaxing and hopeful and all thoughts of composure fly straight out of Sibella's head. She grabs onto Phoebe, hands on her waist, and ignores the clatter of her carry-on as it falls to the floor. She chases the ghost of a memory of the last time they did this, drunk and giddy and exhilarated, and this time she's sober and clear-headed and it doesn't feel like a dream. It's crystalline reality and Sibella commits every detail to memory so she will never, ever forget this moment. 

When Phoebe draws back, her face is flushed and her eyes are bright. She looks like she's not sure whether she wants to beam or cry. Sibella knows just how she feels. "You came," she says and her voice wavers like it's a revelation. 

"I came," Sibella says, and gropes for her hand so she can squeeze it. 

Phoebe draws an unsteady breath. "There's so much we need to talk about. I don't want to make any assumptions. _We_ don't." 

She's right, of course. There are so many things they need to talk about. Sibella has so many questions, so many things she needs clarified. And she's always been the sensible sort, the one to push aside emotions for what's smart and makes good sense, but right now just the thought of it seems exhausting. 

"We do," she agrees, and seeks out Monty's hand with her free one, so she's holding on to both of them tight. "Later. For now, we're on our honeymoon, and I think we ought to enjoy it." 

Phoebe's smile spreads across her face, brilliant as a sunrise, in the moment before she shakes off Sibella's hand and throws her arms around her neck and kisses her all over again.


End file.
